


Elegant Fall

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24250936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When Faramir walks in on his king'spirvate moment, he doesn't think it will change their friendship into something more. Fortunately, he is wrong.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	Elegant Fall

**Author's Note:**

> A bun came to me and demanded to be written out. So there you go! MermaidSheenaz betaed it - hannon le, hir nin! <3

The king laughs merrily, his shoulders shaking with mirth, the corners of his eyes creasing slightly. Faramir takes the sight of him in greedily, then looks to the side. The table is full this evening, the smaller dining room filled to the brim with guests from Lamedon, distinguished lords and their ladies all eating and chatting. They are all celebrating this year’s harvest and newfound peace after war, and Faramir finds himself consuming more wine than is strictly necessary. He is far from drunk, not even properly tipsy yet, but the sweet drink makes his body warmer and he doesn’t think much when Aragorn pours some more into his cup. 

_Ah… Faramir..._

A rakish grin adorns his king’s face and there is a glimmer in his eyes, and Faramir smiles back tightly, remembering the previous evening suddenly. Those same eyes, now sharp and happy, were completely unfocused back then, staring up at the ceiling.

-&-

He had been given the leeway to enter without announcing himself first - a matter of convenience more than courtesy. The king was often busy, even late in the evening, and pulling him away from his work just to make him admit his steward was not a good idea. And so, Aragorn had decreed early on to let Faramir enter his chambers at all hours without unnecessary questions and notifications. It had worked fine for the past year, and nobody seemed to think anything about it anymore. 

When Faramir entered the king’s private wing, meaning only to return a book of Elvish poetry he had borrowed earlier, he was not ready for this usual occurrence to change anything in his life. Minding the late hour, he slipped inside quietly, noticing as he went that most of the wing was rather dark. Years of leading a ranger’s life allowed for light gait, and Faramir used all that knowledge to move soundlessly from the drawing room to the little study Aragorn favored. The desk was cluttered with all kinds of items, from quills to parchments, and seeing an intricate painting made on one of the pages, Faramir smiled. It showed the rose bush they had recently discovered in an unkempt part of the gardens and, going by its renewed form, Aragorn was deeply concerned with making that particular corner beautiful once more. 

Faramir ran one finger over the edge of the picture, entranced, pulling away when he felt the dampness of the parchment indicating the freshness of the composition. Not keen to leave the book atop of the messy desk, driven by fear of ruining such a delicate picture, Faramir wandered further in. There was a sizable wardrobe in Aragorn’s bedchamber, and the steward knew well that the only item resting on it usually was the winged crown, housed on a black velvet cushion. There should be enough space to leave the tome and have Aragorn see it in the morning. 

As Faramir moved on, he noticed that the door to the bedroom stood wide open and, even if the rest of the private chambers was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight falling in through tall windows, there were a few candles burning on the bedside table, basking the interior in a dim, warm glow. 

Pleased that the king was not asleep yet, Faramir walked closer, raised his hand to knock on the doorframe and _froze._

-&-

“So tell me, Prince Faramir, have you visited Lamedon yet?” One of the lords asks, leaning in attentively. Faramir glances at him, his question tearing him out of his thoughts, forcing him to focus on the dinner. He nods quickly, trying to hide just how much he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation just now.   
“Ah, yes. I have visited on multiple occasions, although I have to admit that the last time I was there was way before the war,” he answers, loud enough that Aragorn hears his words, too, which earns him a curious look. 

_Ah… Faramir..._

  
“Indeed? And how do you find the lands, my lord?” The guest enquires, and Faramir fights the urge to sigh.   
“Very lovely, except for the roads.” He adds a little smile at the end, hoping to finish this particular exchange, not interested at all in any part of Lamedon when his mind is busy replaying the sight of Aragorn he had seen the previous night.   
“The roads?” The lord goes on, and this time Faramir does sigh, albeit quietly. “You must have visited us a long time ago! The roads are much better now!”   
“Yes, it was before my brother died,” Faramir says seriously. This time, the only response he gets is a solemn nod from the lord. 

The conversation is over after that, thankfully, and the steward goes back to his wine, sending a glance Aragorn’s way. The frown he’s gifted with is completely unexpected, and Faramir quickly averts his gaze. 

_Ah… Faramir..._

-&-

There was a wooden bathtub placed in the middle of the bedchamber, and Faramir belatedly realized that the king’s washroom was still under construction. Legolas had proposed a renovation, eager to incorporate some ingenious Elvish designs for piping, and Aragorn had readily agreed. The rebuilding had been started and was apparently still underway, even if Faramir had completely forgotten about it. How could he not? When his father had been ruling, the simple act of changing carpets echoed throughout the citadel with displeased comments and impatient complaining. The king, though… Aragorn acted like nothing ever bothered him, going as far as to take his baths in another part of the castle without a word of protest, sometimes carrying his own bucket of water there and giving their staff a headache. 

It was no surprise that he asked for the bathtub to be brought in without making much fuss about it. 

What was a surprise was the look of torment on his face when Faramir saw him, head tipped back and resting against the edge of the tub. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, and Faramir had a moment of fear where he worried about his king’s wellbeing. But then, his gaze went lower, expecting to find some imagined threat to Aragorn’s health, only to encounter one royal hand working leisurely below his waist. 

-&-

Faramir watches Aragorn’s fingers - elegant, roughened by years of soldiering, scarred at the knuckles and soft on their sides. He observes them twitch slightly over a new bottle being opened, sees how they curl around a knife, as dangerous between them as any other blade. He drags his gaze away after a long moment, lets it travel reluctantly upwards, over a slender wrist and along shifting muscles, slipping over tanned skin until the view is blocked by thick robes the king is wearing. 

_Ah… Faramir..._

It’s warm inside the citadel, and Faramir feels even hotter for the wine flowing in his veins. He entertains a thought - briefly, only _briefly_ \- of his king undressing. Of him helping. 

With a shake of his head, he grabs the nearest edible thing, which turns out to be a roasted chicken leg. Biting into it, Faramir tries not to think about biting something else for reasons which have nothing in common with eating. 

-&-

_Beautiful._ There was no other way to describe his king in that moment. As Faramir watched, safe in the shadows encompassing him, Aragorn’s hand stroked slowly, surely, not to tease but not in any hurry to bring the act to its natural conclusion. It would seem almost meditative in its pace, had it not been for the way his chest heaved, air leaving in rushed pants through his barely opened mouth. 

Somehow, even after a year of royal life, Aragorn’s body hadn’t lost any of its sharpness - he is all angles and sinew, warrior’s muscles distributed evenly, hiding deadly power and years of endurance. Soft skin, wet and glistening, muscles working underneath with liquid grace. He is pleasing to look at, a subject for a painting, except Faramir would never hang such a treasure on the wall. Those intimate shadows and delightful plains were not for everyone to see, especially not like this - vulnerable in simmering passion, a forbidden view stolen in the night by too curious eyes. 

Suddenly, feeling bad for what he was doing, Faramir took a step back, looking down. He should _leave,_ he should go and give his king the privacy he deserved. It was nothing unusual for a man, not an activity to be ashamed of, no matter how undiscussed it went in a day-to-day life. The steward could easily remember the last handful of times he had done this, too, in the secrecy of his own bed, a hand wrapped firmly around his length, the king’s smiling face in his mind. He would have a new picture to dream of now, in soft colors and muted splash of water, something tangible to hold on to when his blankets became cold again. 

He looked up again, wondering what the king was thinking about. Was it the beautiful Evenstar, of whom he had heard only stories? She had sailed to Aman, but love was never so easy to be given up… It would make sense for him to long for her still. Or maybe it was the beautiful girl who had come to petition him the day before, claiming to have been cheated out of land and position by her sister? She had certainly been captivating with her flowing hair and dark eyes... 

Faramir bit the inside of his cheek when a sigh escaped those parted lips, a tongue darting out to lick them, almost as if it was chasing the sound hastily. Aragorn moved his other hand then, trailing it over his stomach and down, until it disappeared underwater. The surface of it glimmered with candlelight, and Faramir couldn’t see what its destination was, but he tried anyway. _Was the skin there soft and pliant, stroked carefully? Or did Aragorn prefer a bolder touch? Or maybe he let his fingers stray-_

No. Faramir shivered, imagining what exactly Aragorn could be doing, then almost shook his head at himself. There was no reason to think that just because he himself enjoyed laying with men, Aragorn would be the same way. It was dangerous to think that, wrong to weave those conclusions without any evidence, for Faramir knew those thoughts would come back to haunt him. Unbidden, images of him and his king flashed through his mind, with Aragorn’s hands stroking them both just like he was stroking himself now, with sure, precise movements, the fluidity of them as entrancing as it was arousing. 

He almost turned to leave, but then, the king’s eyes fluttered open to look at the ceiling above, and Faramir froze for the second time that evening. 

-&-

“Are you feeling alright?” Aragorn asks quietly, leaning in and staring intently into Faramir’s eyes. The steward looks down quickly, his gaze landing on his half-eaten meal.  
“I am fine, my king,” he mumbles quietly.   
“Nonsense!” Aragorn argues, still keeping his voice low. “You’ve barely eaten and you’ve been eerily quiet. Tell me what is wrong.” There is so much worry in that small request that Faramir doesn’t have the heart to rebuke him again. He doesn’t want to trouble his king, especially that the matter is delicate, involves Aragorn himself and… and is utterly _ridiculous._ It would not sit well to go professing his love in front of the whole table, not to mention describing all the other activities he wishes to do.   
“There is a matter that weighs on me, but I assure you it is nothing serious.” 

_Ah… Faramir..._

Aragorn frowns, his gaze unflinching, and when Faramir looks up again, the troubled expression of his king makes him put on a smile. Whether Aragorn can tell if it is fake, he doesn’t know, but the subject is dropped with a disapproving glare, and Faramir is left to ponder his thoughts in peace.

It doesn’t take much time, just a few words exchanged between the lords seated on the opposite side, a snippet of their conversation pertaining to horses and _riding,_ and Faramir’s mind flashes with vivid images of another kind of mounting. He sips his wine, feeling himself blush furiously, and hopes nobody notices all the glances he throws Aragorn. 

-&-

The steward knew that he should leave, that observing such an intimate moment - and of one’s king! - was not proper conduct. But he couldn’t move from the spot. His feet seemed rooted to the floor, and even if they weren’t so uncooperative, a sudden movement would surely catch Aragorn’s attention now that his eyes were open. And so, Faramir remained as he was, hidden in the shadows, his gaze glued to his king. 

Aragorn’s hands never once ceased their movement, one working with increasing speed under the surface of the water, the other changing the rhythm on his manhood to a faster pace. It made the water ripple and slosh around in the tub, creating a dull echo. He wanted to add his own noises to the quiet concert, wanted to push his hand into the water, dip it low and make it splash around as Aragorn writhed under the caress. And if the king decided it good, maybe he would reach with his own hands, curl his fingers around the hardness between Faramir’s legs-

Those same clever fingers were now fisting the straining length in a grip that looked almost painfully tight, and the sole notion of a bit of roughness that his king seemingly preferred sent sparkling pleasure tingling down Faramir’s spine. He almost moaned aloud when Aragorn’s hips pushed up, arching against the grip he had on himself, his hand pausing, one digit rubbing right under the head. The teasing touch tore a sharp gasp out of his mouth, and the steward bit his own tongue to stay quiet. He could feel his nails digging into the book he was still holding, digging into his _palm_ \- a desperate attempt at not reaching out - when Aragorn’s whole body bowed back, a long line of skin perfectly marred with sparse scars. 

Faramir wanted to _feast_ on it. 

There was a small breathless moan escaping Aragorn, a noise so low it could be lost in a wayward breeze, and his mouth opened and closed helplessly a few times, eyes closing once again. And then, just as Faramir was sure his own body would combust, a whisper could be heard.   
“Ah... Faramir...” 

The shock of hearing his own name falling from those perfect lips made the steward’s head swim. He took a step back, his gut clenching at the possibility of being discovered, but Aragorn didn’t even pause. His head fell forward, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his strokes gained on speed once again until suddenly, arching up with a moan, he gave in to pleasure. The sight of him in that moment, his undiminishing beauty and masculine roughness softened and blurred by a look of pure bliss on his face, made Faramir’s knees weak. 

He knew he was doomed, but in a last attempt at avoiding a disaster, the steward forced himself to move. If he left now, nobody would know. His king’s privacy would remain undisturbed and no awkward conversations would be had.

Using all his skills, he somehow managed to back away quietly, then slip out of the rooms. It was only when he was entering his own bedchamber that he realized he was still gripping the Elvish book. He tossed it to the side, plunged one hand into his breeches and hoped to stay quiet.

-&-

There is a knock on his door and Faramir groans, getting up from bed to open it. The feast ended about an hour before and he has already washed and changed into his nightshirt. He's lounging on his bed and trying to decide which book could take his mind off the sight of his king haunting his memories. Receiving guests is the last thing on his mind right now. 

That notion changes somehow when he finds Aragorn on the other side of the heavy wood, dressed in a set of loose trousers and a half-undone shirt. He is holding a lit candle in his hand and even in its meager light, Faramir can see that his hair is dripping wet, probably freshly washed.   
“May I?” The king asks, looking over Faramir’s shoulder, and it takes a ridiculously long time for the steward to process the request. Once he does, he moves to the side hastily, letting Aragorn in and closing the door behind him. He watches as Aragorn walks up to the small desk he has in the corner and places the candle there in one of the empty holders, adding to the collective glow of the ones already burning nearby. Then the king turns and fixes Faramir with a stare. 

“I will have you tell me what bothers you, my friend.” It’s an order, given as kingly as can be, and Faramir feels a shiver crawling up his spine. Whether it’s fear or lust, he doesn’t know. 

_Ah… Faramir..._

He has spent the whole day replaying the memory over and over in his mind, changing imaginary angles, swapping Aragorn’s hands with his own, letting his fingers travel all over his king’s body and making him gasp and moan in pleasure. He had to excuse himself in the middle of the feast to find a dark corridor where he could shove one hand into his breeches and the other into his mouth.

And now the object of his desire is standing here, right in front of him, regal like the kings of old, giving him an inquiring look that brooks no argument. Faramir longs to touch him, wrap his arms around his king and bring their bodies close. Everything Aragorn did the previous evening, he would do to him with his own hands, with his _mouth,_ if he was permitted. Their stations have kept them apart, but Faramir is willing to step over them, if only to satisfy the hunger Aragorn’s mere presence brings. Had they been two rangers in the wild, he would not be thinking about it now - they would be both twisted in his sheets, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin, basking in the glow of satisfaction. 

Suddenly, perhaps realizing his position, Faramir feels tired. He walks to his bed and slumps down on the edge of the mattress, aware that it is far from proper to sit in the presence of one’s ruler if the ruler in question remains standing. He has no more strength to worry about it. For a long moment, he looks at the floor, trying desperately to find wise words to get out of this ridiculous situation. What does one say to one’s king in a case like this? How does one avoid the inevitable embarrassment that is surely to follow? 

He should tell Aragorn everything. He should admit not only to sneaking around in his king’s chambers and inevitably stumbling upon the most enticing sight he has ever seen, but also to _staying and watching._ It would be easier. Aragorn is a wise man, gifted with patience and understanding that surpasses any mortal Faramir has known. And if it so happens that the king wants nothing to do with him after his admission, well… their situation wouldn’t really change, would it? They are friends now, and that part of their lives could take a strain, but it is not like they are involved in anything more romantic than that. No matter what the steward dreams about in the dead of night.

“Faramir...” His name sounds so gentle in Aragorn’s mouth that something inside him twists. He heaves in a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob, then looks up when he hears footsteps. The king has moved and is now standing in front of him, looking down into Faramir’s eyes with such concern that he must avert his gaze again. He can feel his cheeks warming up, a blush spreading over them probably visible even in the candlelight. Without a warning, causing Faramir to startle in surprise, Aragorn lowers himself to the floor, kneeling in front of him. His hands travel to Faramir’s head and tilt it up, making him look at the king. 

“What is wrong, my friend?” He asks softly, carefully, ignoring Faramir’s scandalized expression upon seeing his liege on the ground. “You have not been yourself today, and it worries me greatly. Remember that, before becoming a king, I was just a man with a share of troubles that would surprise you with how mundane they were. I’ve been a healer also, and I hope to remain one till my last breath, so please, tell me how I can help... Are you ill? Hurt?” One of his hands reaches up to press against Faramir’s forehead, looking for the nonexistent fever, and the steward jerks away, looking to the side.   
“I’m not ill, nor hurt. I’m... _ashamed,_ my king,” he whispers, biting his lip. He can feel Aragorn’s eyes on him, calculating. He _knows_ he won’t be able to hide anything from him.   
“Ashamed?” The king asks at last. “What have you to be ashamed of?” There is a lilt to his tone, hidden under confusion and surprise, but it speaks of Aragorn relaxing slightly. He sounds relieved like Boromir once did, when he learned that Faramir’s ankle was only bruised and not broken, after he had caused the damage by sheer accident.

It takes Faramir a moment to gather his thoughts - and courage - but then he’s speaking, the words flowing out of him with strength he didn’t know he had.   
“I have trespassed on your privacy, my king,” he starts, glancing at Aragorn briefly, taking in the astonished expression on his face, before he lowers his gaze to the ground again. “I walked into your bedchamber yesterday. I.. I only wanted to return the book I borrowed, nothing more. I thought you were asleep at first, so I tried to be quiet. And then I saw you in the tub and...” He trails off, hesitating. His cheeks are burning, his fingers are twisting together nervously where they hang between his knees, and when Aragorn pries them gently apart and takes hold of his hands, Faramir sucks in a startled breath. 

“If anything,” the king says haltingly, “it is me who should be ashamed. I left the door open while I engaged in a... _private matter.”_ It is a reassurance, but it sounds wrong to Faramir’s ears, so he shakes his head hurriedly. It somehow filters into his mind that Aragorn doesn’t sound angry or surprised but still, Faramir scoffs quietly.   
“But you are allowed to do whatever you want! It is me who must seek your forgiveness, my king. It was rude of me to intrude like that... And then I-” He stops abruptly, realizing he has said a lot more than he intended. 

Aragorn brings one hand to his chin and lifts it carefully, his gaze catching Faramir’s. He looks regal still, but his eyes are warm, more curious than shocked, and there is no trace of anger anywhere to be found. Had Faramir admitted to something like that in front of his father, he would probably be punished quite severely. But his king’s face is open, his features soft, and the sense of security wraps around Faramir like a warm blanket.  
“You...?”   
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” It is whispered with closed eyes and a tortured sigh that escapes him unbidden.   
“So... this is why you’ve been so distracted today?” Aragorn concludes for him.   
“Yes, my king.”   
“Faramir?” There is a curious note in his voice, but it’s hard to pick it apart without looking, so the steward lets it go.   
“My king?”   
“Must you be so formal?” 

Faramir opens his eyes and jerks his head up to stare at Aragorn, confused at the sudden change of the topic. He wants to ask for clarification - what does this request mean in the light of the trespassing he committed? - but right when his lips part to voice his thoughts, Aragorn’s mouth is suddenly on his, pressing into him until there’s no space left between them. The king leans up further, unbalancing them both as he kisses Faramir, forcing him to fall back on the bed. The steward goes down with a surprised huff, his hands clenching in Aragorn’s shirt on instinct, pulling him along in the process. Aragorn climbs over him, settling over his lap, and _oh Eru,_ the way his legs wrap around Faramir’s hips... 

The kiss is slowly driving him mad, the heat of Aragorn’s tongue slipping inside and claiming his mouth just like he claimed the long-forgotten lands. The king’s hands wander down his arms, settling briefly at his waist, fingers warm through the thin cotton of the nightshirt he’s wearing, and Faramir moans, overwhelmed, straining up and bringing their bodies together.

It is no surprise that he is already aroused, not after he has spent the whole day imagining this moment, but to feel an answering hardness pressed against him, hot and demanding even through the layer of the loose trousers the king is wearing, sends a trill through Faramir. He pulls away, gasping for air, trying to hike up Aragorn’s shirt and get to the lacings beneath it. He is aware that he should slow down, that whatever ridiculous notion he has been entertaining in his head was just that - a ridiculous notion in his head. It doesn’t mean that Aragorn has been doing the same… 

But then, Faramir remembers that breathy whisper, his name spoken like if he was the greatest gift the king could desire. He moves his hands around, away from the laces and to the small of Aragorn’s back, delighting in the tender skin he encounters. There are vulnerable parts to every man’s body which, left unprotected, prove fragile and sensitive beyond reason. He runs his fingers as high as he can along Aragorn’s spine, trailing the same path down with his nails. Lightly, so very lightly - a caress more than any intent of harm, which earns him a delighted groan. The king smiles down at him, a happy, blindingly bright grin the likes of which Faramir has rarely seen, then rolls them both over, until Faramir is perched above him. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Aragorn says calmly, a statement of a fact and an expression of wonder. His smile never vanishes, but it morphs to something gentler, more _loving,_ and Faramir finds it hard to breathe for a moment. He reaches out with one hand, stroking his fingers down the side of his king’s face, and Aragorn closes his eyes at this. He tilts his head back and for a moment, he seems to Faramir one of the Valar, with his still-wet hair splayed around his head like a halo, dressed in a simple shirt and yet still looking more kingly than anyone walking these lands. To think that he is allowed to witness that, that he has the permission to see his king in this position - it shakes Faramir to his core. He splays his hands over Aragorn’s chest, sliding them down until his fingers touch the hem of his shirt. He hesitates then, glancing up, licking his lips when he finds Aragorn watching him intently. 

“Please,” the king whispers, and Faramir nods, pushing and pulling, until they can get rid of the soft cotton. He looks down, taking in plains of delicate skin, delighted in the play of shadows between ribs as Aragorn sighs and reaches for Faramir’s shirt also. He is wearing nothing underneath and, as they pull it over his head, Faramir realizes the precarious position they are in, with his king’s knees bracketing his sides. Aragorn doesn’t seem to mind, skimming his hands over Faramir’s chest, down his abdomen, until they encounter his length. Those elegant fingers wrap around it, a firm stroke, two, and the steward moans, falling forward to kiss his king blindly, his own hands clawing at the ties of Aragorn’s trousers. 

They come undone quickly, and soon, they are both bared, sliding together when he grinds down, and Aragorn tosses his head back with a whimper so _sweet_ it surpasses anything Faramir’s mind could ever conjure. He’s hungry to hear more, so he grasps Aragorn’s manhood, stroking slowly at first, then quicker, encouraged by the noises his king makes. It is infinitely better than his imagination, as solid and real as the sight he walked in upon, and so much more delectable for Aragorn’s participation. He’s allowed to touch, to squeeze, to rake his nails down his king’s side and press careful touches between his thighs. Each and every action is met with a satisfied sound, answered with a mirrored move somewhere on his own body, and his heart swells. 

“Ah...” Aragorn pulls back from the kiss, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Had I known you were within my reach, my dear...” he pants the words out, his voice raspy. “I would have left that blasted door open a long time ago.” The admission is surprising, but not unwelcome, and Faramir grins, overwhelmed by happiness. Somehow, it comes to him that maybe he wasn’t alone in his longing. Maybe his king has been eyeing him as much as he has?  
“How long?” Faramir asks, curious, knowing that Aragorn will know what he means. Indeed, when the answer comes, it’s voiced with all the confidence of a noble ruler.   
“Since I saw you in the Houses of Healing... _ah! Faramir...”_ He arches up when Faramir finds each and every of his sensitive spots with unfailing precision. Aragorn looks up, staring at him with his mouth open, unable to formulate a single coherent sentence. The power of speech has deserted him, and there is only the question in his eyes, a mirror of Faramir’s own curiosity.   
“Always, my king,” the steward groans more than says, because Aragorn’s hands are not idle. They grope and squeeze, one of them worming its way between them to grip them both. 

Somehow, they manage not to wake up the whole castle, muffling noises with tongues before they can slip out. It is with trembling and a desperate embrace that they conclude their union, and when they lay spent afterwards, chests heaving and bodies twitching, Aragorn nuzzles into Faramir’s neck, sighing contentedly. It makes his steward shiver and as time trickles slowly by, the night around startles them with its sudden chill. Feeling half-asleep already, Faramir pulls away, looking down at him.   
“What happens now?” He asks quietly, pleased when his voice doesn’t falter. Aragorn hums thoughtfully, one hand sliding over Faramir’s bare thigh. The gesture is easy and simple, but it transfers in Faramir’s brain as possessiveness. With a start, he realizes that he doesn’t mind. He has never let any of his rangers act like this, always rebutting any advances that went beyond friendly tumbles in the leaves. But Aragorn spreading his fingers over his leg in such a manner, stroking his hand up until it wraps around the curve of his backside, feels strangely right.   
“We should sleep, I think.” Aragorn says, looking down and licking his lips lazily, before he smiles. “Unless you want to tell me more about what thoughts distracted you during the dinner.” 

Hearing that, Faramir groans, feeling his cheeks once again turning pink. He hides his face in Aragorn’s neck, a pleasant warmth spreading through him when Aragorn’s arms come up to wrap him in an embrace. A blanket is tugged from underneath them, then thrown on top and, as they settle for the night, Faramir doesn’t have the heart to ask about permanence. 

This particular unformed question seems to resolve itself in the morning, when he finds his king still wrapped in his arms, drooling over his chest, one leg thrown over Faramir’s hip, almost as if he’s staking a claim over him. Feeling giddy from happiness, Faramir strokes the dark curls fondly, making sure not to wake Aragorn too early. They have another long day ahead of them with the lords from Lamedon, most likely being cooped up at one long table or another. He smiles when he thinks about yesterday’s events, before the full extent of his situation dawns on him. 

There will be no way to avoid thinking about Aragorn now, not after he has seen his king without a stitch of clothing on him, moaning and writhing in desire.

His hand pauses where it is brushing behind Aragorn’s ear, his mind busy picking apart every possible outcome of the embarrassing day ahead, but when the king hums and nuzzles against his chest, he finds that he doesn’t mind all that terribly. His fingers resume their path through Aragorn’s hair as Faramir ponders the best way to sneak out during the talks in the afternoon. 


End file.
